Do I have “white privilege”? Yes, I do. I suppose there are few middle-class white Americans who do not. That means I have a lot to learn about racism and discrimination.
I was born in 1944 into a middle-class white family, lived the majority of my childhood in a rural area, and had little direct exposure to any race, culture or sub-culture other than “white middle class”. The area where I grew up in Western New York produced acres and acres of vegetables and fruit, much of which was harvested by migrant workers.
What did I know about the migrant workers? Well, I knew that the nearby labor camp was a filthy, semi-dangerous place which I needed to pass (on my bike) quickly and quietly. I learned that the labor camp on the other side of town housed the Spanish-speaking migrants and there was a reason why those camps were on opposite sides of town. I attended grade school and, for the first couple months of each school year shared my desk seat with one of the migrant children. You see, as migrants, the families moved on when the picking was done. I felt bad for the kids that left and wondered where they would go to school next.
Here’s what I didn’t understand. I did not understand why the people who owned the labor camp near my home didn’t maintain the property. They bought an old and shabby farm with several out buildings.The migrant families moved into each of those buildings based, I was told, on some kind of pecking order that I did not understand.
I didn’t understand how or why a kind lady in the neighborhood stopped in at the camp many evenings. My parents told me she was making sure the children were getting food and medicine. She sometimes bandaged up wounds from a knife fight. She brought healthy food and lots of love. At the end of one season a boy that I knew, Ike, decided not to move on and left the camp. He showed up at that nice lady’s house, asking to be allowed to live in their barn. The good lady and her husband took him in like their son. Ike graduated from high school, went into the service, learned to cook and ended up in a restaurant in New York City.
I have known several people of color. First, there was “Ike”. Then, as an x-ray tech in the Air Force, I met and became friends with Zac, just back from Thailand. He was looking for friends and we became great friends until I was transferred to a new base. Some of my best workers at the airport where I spent my career were people of color. They were hard working, sincere and a joy to be with. When working as a consultant, my best customer was one of the City’s Neighborhood Associations. Its leader and I worked in close cooperation over several months. I once asked my daughter, a social worker, when I would not think about the fact that I was in a “strange” environment. She laughed and said, “You’ll get there. One day you will just not see the racial difference.”
It’s the unintended things that I do and say that keep me on that “white-privileged” bad list. The times I say Negro, African-American or black person instead of “person-of-color” (Is that the currently correct term? If it changes, how will I know?); it’s the times I see a person of color walking down the street at 3:00 a.m. and watch (. . . but, would I not also watch a white man at that time of night?); it’s the times I am describing a scene and say, “. . . a black guy was . . . ”. For what purpose would I describe his skin color? I really try to be aware, but due to my lifestyle I just don’t have that many opportunities to connect in a way that will move the world forward.
I can do little to correct this country’s horrible practice of discriminating against anyone who doesn’t come from a white European cultural background. I can only do my part in the surroundings where I live and work. There, I promise to behave responsibly and to remain blind to race, creed or sexual orientation of the people I meet and engage. That’s my pledge and I’ll do my best to help reduce the negative effects of racism and discrimination.
[Inspired by a wonderful article entitled, “You’re My Inspiration” by Eric K. Ward, found in the American Educator, Spring 2022]
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